


love is the sky and i am for you

by Sera_Clay



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-10
Updated: 2015-04-15
Packaged: 2018-03-22 05:05:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3716206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sera_Clay/pseuds/Sera_Clay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lizzington, AU, angst, romance.<br/>Title from a poem by e.e. cummings. All else not mine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Trial

There was the moment Liz could have told Red what they were plotting, then urged him to run.

There was the walk with his wrists and ankles in chains, the worst of it seeing his hat fallen and crushed beneath their boots.

There was the deep cold silence of his cell, the indifference of those weeks without a word.

But Liz waited as Red asked, as Dembe begged her to, for that moment in that bleak secure courtroom, fluorescent lights and metal chairs and Red in a cage like an animal, filthy and unshaven.

That moment his enemies could not bear not to watch.

"Relax, you look just fine," the special prosecutor advises her.

Liz tugs nervously at her collar. She's wearing a new suit and a conservative blouse that she asked the dry cleaner to starch, and it itches.

She hasn't looked over at Red since that first glance, his eyes downcast, his sensitive mouth similarly turned down in defeat. This was his plan, and she hates it with a passion.

Too many variables.

When she takes the stand her fist is clenched around the mock-up of the Fulcrum that Aram spent weeks building.

Not the whole thing, just the piece from her stuffed bunny Petrov. He is packed at the very bottom of her go bag, along with the few remnants of this life she's about to abandon.

Liz testifies about the first name from the blackmail file that they managed to decrypt. Sets the mock-up down in front of the laptop the judge is perusing while listening to testimony.

She's relieved, but unsurprised, when the white-haired judge calls an immediate recess. The cabal must have her on speed dial.

"He's our witness; you can't let them take him!" she protests to the special prosecutor as Red is dragged from the courtroom. She hates the way they manhandle him, the way she can see the cleated soles of his shoes. He looks so small in their armored grasp, big men with set faces who understand nothing of the parts they are playing.

Her companion just shakes his head.

"National security," he comments in an acid tone, stuffing papers back in his briefcase. "You'd know something about that in the FBI, right?"

She won't know until Dembe texts her whether their plan has succeeded.

***

The text from Nick's Pizza comes more than an hour after she arrives back in her office, a memo open and half-completed on her computer screen. Liz changes a word or two, then changes them back. She can't think, can barely feign working even in the privacy afforded by her closed door.

"Your pizza has been delivered."

Liz gasps and covers her eyes for a moment, so grateful for that door. Red's whole strategy rested on a series of interlocking assumptions; that the cabal had instigated the trial, along with the voiding of his immunity package; that they would be monitoring the trial in real time; that they would try to seize Red; that their agents of choice would be the nearest blacksite, other than the Post Office, where her friends still work.

Infiltrating that one site was the painstaking, nerve-wracking work of weeks.

But now Red is safe with his people, and the cabal can't pretend any longer about the Fulcrum. Red clearly has it, given the evidence that he's begun to share with the FBI. At least with Liz.

Liz stares down at her phone. No more calls from Nick's Pizza. Dembe and Red are in the air by now. Too far away to stop her.

She didn't discuss her own exit strategy with them. She just let Red think she would stay in her profiler position, a safe desk job. After he's gone, there's no reason for the cabal to care about her.

Liz stands and stretches, hooks her jacket off the back of her chair and slings it over her arm. Looks around one last time.

This small, government issue room was once the pinnacle of her ambition.

Her diplomas are framed on the wall. Her nameplate sits squarely in the center of her desk, her name etched in brass. She's stacked all the files on her desk in the box marked "OUT."

Liz doesn't close the door behind her when she leaves. The cleaners will be coming soon. They won't touch her desk, or the file boxes - just vacuum in a desultory fashion and then lock the door when they finish.

As she waits for the elevator, she wonders how long it will take for her current colleagues to notice and then question her absence. Days? More than a week?

Aram has already texted her twice about not confirming drinks with him, Samar, and Ressler next Friday.


	2. In Considered Flight

"Really, we could have paused in our headlong flight for long enough for me to at least shower," Red expostulates. He lifts his glass and Dembe obliges him with a refill.

He's still filthy, in the tattered remnants of a suit he selected for his arrest due to the way a few green threads in the weave seemed to turn his skin tone a little sallow.

After weeks in solitary confinement Red has concluded that a more attractive suit might have been a better companion.

Not that he has any intention of enduring captivity again. Not ever.

"Shower in Switzerland - you know you prefer the water there," responds Dembe.

"Ah, the delights of snow melt," says Red, turning the glass in his fingers and staring down into the scotch, admiring the rich color.

Dembe looks down at his phone one last time, then shrugs.

"No return message?" Red asks, still looking down into his glass. He doesn't really want to look at Dembe's face right now. Dembe is taking the abrupt separation from Liz hard; they worked so closely together for so long, called and texted and planned together day and night, whenever their respective schedules allowed.

"No, which is probably wise," says Dembe somberly. 

There's nothing Red can say to that. He's departed from her life with absolute finality. It's the only way to protect her. No mater how badly it hurts.

But Dembe doesn't make friends easily. Red can't remember him ever laughing so often or so joyfully as in conversation with Liz.

"To Elizabeth," Dembe lifts his glass in toast, and Red mimics the gesture, swallowing hard against the easy tears starting to his eyes at the thought that he may never see her again. Not in this life.

She was so poised, so beautiful on that witness stand. Her brilliant gaze on him so perfectly indifferent. The triumphant princess looking down upon the degraded criminal.

He's just so weary. It has to be enough that he's survived and can move on to the next phase of his plans. Somehow, it has to be. 

Because it's all Red has left.

***

"Thanks." 

Liz takes her go bag from the baggage check window, then tosses her train ticket into the next garbage can she passes. In the parking lot she stuffs the bag in one saddlebag and her purse in the other, then mounts the big black motorbike and heads out of the city just ahead of rush hour traffic.

It's a long ride to Atlanta. Liz takes breaks every two hours, drinks black coffee at every stop. She arrives by midnight and checks into a hotel near the airport, paying in cash.

She has one new outfit, a blonde wig, plus a few remnants from her former life. Which include a parting gift from Dembe, proffered shyly. A small blurry photo of him and Red on the deck of a sailboat, grinning into the sun. They both wear hats and sunglasses, but she'd know the tilt of Red's head, the proud set of Dembe's shoulders anywhere.

Liz takes a long shower, weeping until the water cools and she's shaking with reaction.

She's alone. 

All alone in the world, with her meager stash of cash and the UK passport that Tom procured for her so long ago. As if she would ever have run away to England with him to live on a sheep farm.

But at least nobody knows this name.

Elizabeth Martin. Strange that Tom wouldn't change her first name. He insisted that first names were the most difficult to react to in a natural manner.

She wrote a well-received monograph on Tom after he was imprisoned. She's not sure if he's still alive.

Liz climbs naked into bed with the photograph propped up at her bedside. 

"I miss you, Dembe," she whispers softly, reaching out to touch the image as if somehow, far away, he can feel her thinking of him. She looks from his face to Red's wide grin, his teeth so white in his tanned face.

"Oh, Red," she whispers. 

Whatever they did to him while he was confined all those weeks, she can't believe they broke him. It must all have been an act.

Liz turns out the bedside lamp and focuses on getting some sleep. One day at a time.


	3. Abroad

"My dear, you can't be serious!"

Henry Deverall is an old friend, a retired crime lord with a large house in Chelsea. He picks her up at the airport in his Bentley, urges his chauffeur to drive slowly so she can take in the sights.

She hasn't been to London in years, but she recognizes the facade of the Georgian house where she and Sam stayed as they pull up at the curb. Crowded with antiques and a hodgepodge of valuable art, it's been his home for more than 40 years. Liz remembers playing with his son William on the stairs, sliding down the bannisters again and again in defiance of all orders to the contrary.

"Perhaps after supper, and a rest, you'll think twice about this?" he suggests.

Liz shakes her head, the blonde wig bouncing.

"No, if you won't help me, I'll find someone who will," she responds.

The slender old man ushers her inside, leaving his chauffeur to bring the car around to the mews and bring in her suitcase.

"No, no," he protests, raising one thin hand in protest. "I still have certain interests to whom this information would be most valuable."

Liz smiles brightly at him.

"Tomorrow morning, then?"

Her undercover codes are good for a least a week each. Access to the FBI servers should earn her a place in the criminal underworld likely to attract the attention of Raymond Reddington.

She can't hope to find him. She can only hope he will find her.

***

"FBI agent vanishes; believed dead."

Dembe looks up from the paper at Red.

"They are speculating that you had her killed for her part in your trial," he comments with concern.

Red takes another puff on his cigar. Dembe waits.

They are sitting on the terrace of a small but beautifully appointed villa in Switzerland. The mountain views are spectacular, the air is bright and clean.

"Well, I didn't," Red says finally. "Is that the most recent edition of the Times?"

Dembe nods.

Red stares at the tip of his cigar for a moment.

"Do you have a phone?" he asks, finally.

Dembe passes him a burner cell.

"I do hope Aram is awake at this hour," Red comments, dialing from memory. 

Dembe looks out at the snow-tipped mountains, trying to keep the worry off his face. They are planning to ski next week, meet a few associates at a chalet, combine business with pleasure.

Neither of them have felt very social since the escape. Dembe is lonely, and he's caught Red more than once staring at photographs of Liz, looking uncharacteristically lost.

"Aram, I'm calling to see you have any information on the disappearance of Agent Keen."

He listens for a few moments.

"No, of course I had nothing to do with it," Red responds, sounding annoyed. "Would I be calling you if I did?"

Dembe glances over, then closes his eyes for a moment. Red's face is pinched with worry.

"Just think, Aram. Tell about the last few conversations you had with her." 

He nods, frowning.

"Thank you. Yes, I'll be in touch again."

Red closes the phone and takes another long puff on his cigar.

"Dembe, Aram told me something very strange."

There's an unusual tone to Red's voice.

"He said Lizzie almost always texts him back to confirm any plans he suggests, either yes or no, but she didn't respond even though his first text was sent and received before the trial started."

Red looks over at Dembe, a deceptively mild expression on his face.

"You don't know anything about her disappearance that you're not telling me, do you?" he asks in a quiet voice.

Dembe is very glad he does not.

"No, Raymond, I want to know she is safe just as much as you do."

Red's lips curl back for a moment.

"It appears she may have left the FBI by her own choice."

Dembe mulls that over. They deliberately did not leave any surveillance on Liz, at her own request. She stated that she wanted anyone watching her, whether FBI or cabal, to clearly see that Red had no further interest in her. Searching for her now might be the wrong move.

Where would she go? And why?

Dembe would hate to put her in any danger. No matter how badly he wants to see her again.


	4. London

"Good to see you again, Henry!" 

Red crosses the room and embraces the slender, erect old man with the white hair rises from his chair beside the fire at Red and Dembe's entrance.

"You'll be pleased, Ray," he responds. "A direct line into the FBI, just as you heard."

"His name is Martin?" Red asks, sinking into an upholstered chair opposite the crime lord and setting his hat on the table between them. Dembe seats himself near the door and proceeds to become virtually invisible, watching without any weight to his impersonal gaze.

The man chuckles.

"Her name. She's working for my son just now, but she's a completely free agent."

Red's smile broadens. The discord between father and son is legendary; if they have come to some reconciliation, all the better for everyone concerned. He doesn't do much business in London, but he'd prefer not to worry about crossing some invisible line.

An interior door into the large, sumptuously appointed sitting room opens, and Red's next words die on his lips.

Lizzie.

But not the woman he knows.

This woman is clad in a black designer sheath, patterned black silk stockings, and high heels direct from Milan. Her blond hair is pinned up with jeweled combs and her make-up is flawless. 

"So this is your client?" 

Her voice is beyond indifferent. She's looking at Henry as she strolls over, hips swaying, to stand at his shoulder, before her cold blue eyes rake Red without any indication of familiarity.

Dembe doesn't make a sound, but Red can feel him coming to preternatural alertness in his seat near the far door.

"Martin, this is Mr. Reddington."

She smiles down at him without replying. Before he can do more than give her a bland look, hiding his exasperation and his questions behind his customary mask, the inner door opens again.

William Deverall enters the room.

He looks like a Londoner, with his conservative suit and his polished wingtips. His short black hair is slicked back and he's close shaven, his thin lips moving from a smile without warmth when he greets his father, to an expression of greater animation when he reaches the group by the fireplace.

Red's mind races furiously as the taller, younger version of Henry approaches Liz. 

Henry Deverall is a known quantity. William is known only for being unpredictable. He's intelligent and deadly, and no crime is too small for him to want a piece of the action. After succeeding his father, their territory actually experienced an overall decrease in crime.

If Liz makes even one mistake around William, Red won't be able to save her.

"Martin!"

William Deverall's cold, light blue eyes dance with humor as he wraps an arm around her waist and gives her a kiss on the cheek before bending his gaze on Red.

Liz wraps her arm around William and hugs him back, the brief pressure of her body outlining his weapons beneath his suit jacket. Even here, in his own father's home, he's armed, although without his customary bodyguards.

"Mr. Reddington here may be interested in hiring me," Liz tells William.

William gives her waist a little squeeze.

"I'd hate to lose you, but he's known for keeping his bargains," he responds, looking at Red. "What information are you looking for?"

"He didn't specify," Henry responds as Red retreats further behind his mask, trying not to display his fury at the way William is touching her, at Liz for whatever game she is playing in his world with these very dangerous men. 

He can't get angry. Raymond Reddington, the Concierge of Crime, supposedly doesn't even know Lizzie. Martin. And she's not giving him any cues.

All he does know right now is that she is under the protection of both of these men, and perhaps, that she's left the FBI for William. She's normally so careful about her personal space.

How did Liz even have time to meet him? How could he have missed this? Did it happen during the weeks Red was locked away?

"I assume you have a demonstration prepared?" he asks her.

"I have five more codes," Liz responds in a level tone. "Each one is good for a week. If I'm hired, I'll activate them whenever you want."

William gives her waist another squeeze. Damn the man, he must have noticed that it bothers Red when he touches her. Better address that at once.

"She's a professional, not produce," Red observes with a twist of his lips. "Or so you claim."

He expected some reaction from William, but Liz just leans her head on the tall man's shoulder and dimples at Red.

"Don't worry, Mr. Reddington, I won't expect anything of the sort from you."

Red gives her a brief, murderous glare.

Henry glances from one to the other.

"Do we have a bargain, then? Ray?"

He nods, holding a pleasant expression on his face with some effort. Red thought it was painful watching her with Tom, but at least he knew the man was an impostor. William? He's fully her match; around her same age, Oxford educated, wealthy and powerful within his own sphere. Connected enough to hide her from the FBI indefinitely.

So why is Liz trying to work for Red? Is this some plot of William's? She hasn't looked at Dembe once since she entered the room.

"Transfer my salary to William," says Liz, giving the man another of her warm, open smiles. The ones she so rarely bestows on Red. "Henry will give you the account information."

Red raises his brows.

"When will you be ready to depart?" he inquires, irrationally longing to reach for his hat and flee the room. To collect himself fully before he has to look at her, talk to her again.

"I'm ready to leave with you now," she responds, to his dismay. "William, will you help me with my luggage?"

Henry's home is fully staffed with attentive servants, but William Deverall just trails along after her as she leaves the room.

"Ray? Take good care of her, will you?"

Red returns his attention to Henry. His tone is light, but his faded blue eyes are steady. 

Red gives him a curt nod, then relents. 

"Yes, Henry, I'll make her safety a priority," he assures the old man. His stomach is roiling with jealousy. It's an impossible situation.


	5. The River House

Liz gives William one final hug as they stand waiting in the front hall, surrounded by her new leather luggage. Henry has been so generous, taking her on Bond Street shopping trips and insisting on paying for everything.

"You have my number if you need me to rescue you," he reminds her, whispering in her ear as Red and Henry emerge from the sitting room and approach, trailed by Dembe.

"I'll expect you on a white horse," she responds, searching his face once more for the boy she knew and finding him once again in the quick grin William bestows on her before his face returns to its customary, slightly haughty expression. She hasn't told him or his father why she wanted to find Red.

Dembe holds the door as they exchange their final farewells, then opens a large black umbrella to ward off the gray drizzle between the front steps and the waiting car and driver.

Red enters the back seat first, then Liz slides in beside him, leaving room for Dembe. He's holding the umbrella for the driver as he loads her luggage into the trunk.

Red smells like cologne and damp wool and very faintly of Cuban cigars. Their bodies are almost touching, the heat of his big frame so temptingly close.

She folds her hands in her lap and stares forward.

William has already disappeared back into the house, but Henry is standing in the doorway, watching them depart. He gives a little wave as Dembe seats himself beside her, the driver shutting the door behind him before seating himself in front without a word and pulling away into traffic.

"Where are we going?" she asks Dembe, slanting her eyes at the unfamiliar driver.

He looks over at Red, who sighs, just a little hiss of air, before responding.

"The River House."

Dembe leans forward and gives the driver the address.

"Less than an hour outside town, Martin," Dembe tells her.

She can't wait that long. Out of sight of the driver, Liz unclasps her hands and takes Dembe's big hand in her own. She's missed him so much.

She looks over at Red, but he's gazing out the rain-streaked window. Somehow the back of his close-shorn head manages to convey the impression that he's weary and very unhappy. Perhaps it's the tilt of his fedora, the slight tension in his shoulders.

Maybe there's something she can do to help. She thought he would be so happy to finally be free of the threat of the cabal.

Liz folds her other hand in her lap and leans her head back, closing her eyes. She found them. She actually found them.

***

The expansive windows of the Elizabethan manor look down the rolling green lawns to the river. Surrounded by formal gardens which are tended by busy gardeners in gray uniforms, each room decorated in carefully dusted and polished antique furniture, Liz feels she's exploring another world as maids in formal black and white garb bow and silently retreat whenever she enters a room.

Red and Dembe are sitting out on the broad stone terrace, smoking cigars and watching the river flow.

She wants to join them, but she's afraid.

Once the hired driver departed, Dembe caught her in his arms and hugged her, heedless of her expensive new clothes. But Red just departed into some fastness of the immense house, claiming an important phone call, and at lunch he was so charming and yet impossibly remote. 

Liz can't figure him out. If he's angry with her for leaving the FBI, if he doesn't want her here, then why did he hire her? The undercover codes are valuable, but he could have purchased them separately from her services.

There's always something more with Red. But usually, he delights in being an enigma. Despite the amount of rich food he consumed at lunch, his face looked pinched and unhappy.

She wanders into the library, floor to ceiling shelves loaded with leather-bound volumes. Her fingers itch to explore them, but if she starts reading, she'll lose her nerve to confront Red. 

The only way to deal with fear is to face it. This won't get any easier. She just hopes she isn't rushing headlong towards rejection.

"Can I join you?"

Liz steps out onto the terrace and returns Dembe's welcoming smile. Red doesn't even turn in her direction. He just takes another puff at his cigar. She strolls over and looks down at him.

"What?" she asks him, widening her eyes as he gazes blandly up at her. "Is it the blond hair you don't like? Because it's just a wig."

His lips twist into a sneer.

"I know it's just a wig, Lizzie," he responds.

Dembe looks from one of them to the other.

"Shall I go?" he asks, beginning to rise from his chair.

"No," Red responds. "Anything she has to say ..."

"Yes, please," Liz interrupts him.

Red closes his eyes for a moment as Dembe departs, scratching the side of his head.

Liz sinks into the chair beside him, still warm from Dembe's big frame.

"Something's wrong, Red, and I want to know what it is."

He gives a weary chuckle.

"Maybe I can help?" she persists. 

"I very much doubt that," he responds in a dry tone. 

"Try me."


	6. Delight

With the perhaps misplaced confidence engendered by how close they are sitting, the pulse beating at the base of his throat, Liz lays one hand on his arm. The smooth wool of his suit jacket, the starched cotton of the dress shirt beneath it can't quite conceal his flinch when she touches him.

Even six months ago, Liz would have retreated at this point. Hidden herself away and cried at his lack of interest. Instead, she gives his arm a little squeeze.

"Talk to me, Red," she says. "You know you can trust me."

Wordlessly, he shakes his head, then relents as she gives him a beseeching look. Tilts his head and looks at her almost coldly.

"Tell me about William Deverall."

Liz blinks at him. Of all the questions she imagined him asking, has tried to prepare for, that one didn't even make the list. 

"William? He's an old friend. His father and Sam knew each other before I was even born."

Red's brows draw together.

"Really?" he drawls.

Liz stares at his face, trying to put together an interpretation of the unfamiliar expression animating his familiar features. Suddenly it dawns on her.

She can't help smiling, and Red reacts by pulling his arm away from her grasp.

"Red, I've known him since we were children. He's like, he's like a brother to me," she expostulates.

His eyes search her face warily, his mouth pinched in a bitter line.

"Red, I left the FBI for you," she says, reaching over and taking his hand, which is clenched into a fist.

He looks down at their joined hands.

"You never expressed any desire to come with us when we were planning my arrest and escape," he responds in a low tone. "So why are you really here?"

Liz gives him an exasperated stare.

"Red, if our plan failed, I needed to stay with the FBI. To be in a position to try again."

It seems so clear to her. Why doesn't he understand?

She tries again.

"You never indicated that you were interested in me that way, either. Not once we started planning."

Their eyes meet for a moment, and Red is the first to look away.

Their kiss in the hospital, never discussed or repeated. 

Red takes another puff on his cigar. He hasn't pulled his hand away. She has to take that as encouragement.

"You didn't ask me to come with you."

He tilts his head at her.

"Would you have?" he asks in an idle tone.

He's either being deliberately obtuse, or perhaps he doesn't yet believe she really wants him. She's seen flashes of that in Red before, the way he shifts from powerful to damaged, arrogant to abashed. As if he somehow believes himself to be unworthy.

"Red, I did. Here I am."

In emphasis Liz lifts their joined hands, presses a kiss to the back of his knuckles, allows her lips to linger against the tiny red-blond hairs decorating the back of each finger. 

His breath catches audibly. Very slowly, Red pulls her hand to his lips and repeats her gesture.

His lips are so soft.

In that moment, she knows everything is going to work out. 

They sit silently watching the river for a few moments, just holding hands. 

***

Dembe unlocks the gate and pauses, taking in the scene with a delicate sort of delight.

The long, rectangular swimming pool is completely hidden by hedges taller than the wall, roses and flowering shrubs lining the beds that surround the perfectly rolled green lawns that stretch to the smooth stone edging the water, slabs of gray slate that glisten wetly in the summer sunshine.

Red and Liz are treading water near the center of the pool, locked in each other's arms, kissing. They swim together in the heated water every day before lunch, when the weather permits.

Dembe looks over at their lounge chairs, pulled so close together. They each have a small table stacked with books, tubes of sun cream, cold drinks. Their hats and sunglasses and thick monogrammed towels are piled on the chairs.

He's going to swim laps, at least a mile, and Liz will time him. Dembe could barely swim a quarter mile when he started; his musculature makes him sink.

In the afternoon, there will be sailing, or horseback riding, or target practice in the underground shooting gallery.

It's been more than a month, but Dembe has seen no sign of the usual restlessness that overtakes Red when he stays in one place for too long. The River House is special, a true refuge by order of the Queen, although Red has never told Dembe through what favor he procured her Royal Majesty's gratitude.

But Dembe thinks Liz has made the difference. 

Red sings in the shower now, the sound wafting through the open windows of the suite he shares with Liz. He drinks so much less at night.

He and Liz touch each other constantly, little absent-minded touches that demonstrate more than any embrace how important they are to each other.

Dembe doesn't know if he'll ever meet a woman who will love him as much as Liz loves Red. At least he knows now that type of love is possible.

"Hey, Dembe! Come on in!" Red is shouting and waving one hand at him, the other still clasping Liz as they tread water.

Liz turns in the water, smiling, and beckons to him as well, her teeth white in her sun-tanned face above the tight straps of her tiny red bikini.

With a broad grin, Dembe shuts the gate behind him and heads for the pool, to enjoy a happy morning swim with his family.


End file.
